


White Balance

by EA_Lakambini



Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Could be in a relationship if you squint, Gen, Good Omens Celebration 2020, It's Crowley so there's always some pining, Photographs, Slice of Life, Some pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EA_Lakambini/pseuds/EA_Lakambini
Summary: Crowley knows he’s not too great with a lot of things, but it’s kind of embarrassing that most of the photos on his smartphone have turned out this way.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725724
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	White Balance

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a photographer, not even close by any definition, so I apologize if I get some technical terms wrong here.
> 
> Prompt: contrast.

“Angel, y’ready?”

“Just a few moments, dear fellow, make yourself at home. I’ll just put away some of these books and change my tie for something more appropriate, you understand, one really _must_ dress up a bit for the opera, and – “ The angel’s voice becomes muffled as he heads off between the shelves. Crowley shakes his head and settles himself down on the sofa, pulling his phone out to have something to do while he waits.

Crowley makes quick work of a few Twitter threads, and does a perfunctory look through some Reddit updates – and the answer apparently is yes, ducks _do_ have ears, they’re just covered with feathers – and when he looks up from his phone screen, Aziraphale is still not finished. Crowley rolls his eyes and returns to his phone again, deciding to go through his camera roll and clear up some memory space (even if his phone has never even come close to running out of storage space, just because he expects it to stay that way).

His latest photos are from just a few nights ago: some shots of the Bentley subtly gleaming in the evening twilight, parked along Savile Row when he had picked up a new bespoke suit – and there was Aziraphale’s silhouette in the passenger window of the Bentley, seeming to glow slightly against the dark chassis of the car.

Another photo, this time of Crowley wearing said bespoke suit while leaning against the Bentley, all sleek dark lines and shadows, but with just a bit of blur and the pale tip of Aziraphale’s finger in the corner of the shot; no doubt the angel was struggling with using the camera of the smartphone. Crowley laughs quietly to himself, remembering how he had teased the angel that his demonic invention of selfies was nothing if Aziraphale was indeed responsible for fingers-covering-the-shot bad photography.

(Aziraphale had countered that it _still_ wasn’t as bad as red-eye, and Crowley did take credit for that, too.)

Crowley decides to keep those pictures. He scrolls down a bit, grinning despite himself at the photos of Aziraphale dropping a few notes (and a miracle) into a busker’s case as they were walking home from dinner at the angel’s second-favorite sushi restaurant. Honestly, Crowley wouldn’t have bothered at all, considering that the guy’s rendition of “Radio Ga Ga” was laughable at best, but Aziraphale had been delighted at being able to recognize the song – “I know it, I do! You’ve played it in your car before!” – so Crowley just _had_ to sneak a shot of the angel practically _glowing_ with satisfaction as he handed out an extra tenner. Not the most balanced shot, since he had been trying to do it discreetly, but Crowley can’t help but chuckle at the way Aziraphale is beaming in the picture; this one should really go next to the dictionary definition of “angel”.

Crowley doesn’t delete those pictures, either.

Next, some pictures of the ducks in St. James Park, with Aziraphale’s coat just almost out of frame as he tossed some cracked corn into the pond (“Crowley, did you know that bread isn’t the best thing to feed them? You did, didn’t you? You ought to have told me sooner!”). Some fuzzy shots of the London skyline when they had gone on the observation deck of the Shard, and his phone had nearly been knocked out of his hands by Aziraphale’s enthusiastic gesturing at the buildings.

A picture of an almost-empty box of sweets, with the angel’s pale hand reaching out for the last piece of the dark chocolates. A horrendously blurry selfie, taken at some art gala at Burlington House (Aziraphale had worn a bowtie that was actually in a _darker shade of tartan_ ; for Crowley, that was considered a momentous occasion that needed documenting). Four dim photos from inside the Reptile House in London Zoo; Crowley could make out his own sullen face, next to the angel’s too-amused grin reflected in the glass of the terrarium housing the king cobra. The photos really aren’t good; he can’t even truly _see_ the snake that was supposed to be in the center of the pictures.

He really should delete them. No Instagram filters could correct this mess. Crowley knows he’s not too great with a lot of things, but it’s kind of embarrassing that most of the photos on his smartphone have turned out this way. Never really quite in focus, composition unbalanced, tones and colors utterly out of whack, and _really_ , how could he manage to take any decent photographs when there was always some bit of Aziraphale – _wait, hang on – what..?_

Crowley scrolls through the pictures more rapidly now.

The angel was always there. Sometimes just in the background, or at the edge of the frame, or as a blur of movement in the corner, but always there. A spillover of light, a rush of white-tipped motion, a burst of color (because apparently it was possible for creams and beiges to _burst_ ) – an unavoidable contrast to whatever Crowley was trying to focus on. Aziraphale was warmer, more eye-catching, _brighter_ than everything else surrounding him.

And, though he loathed to admit it, Crowley has always been drawn to that light through the shadows. He was a creature of darkness, meant to crawl on dust and dirt and to never raise his eyes to the sky, and yet here populating his days – and accordingly, his photographs – was the brightest of all creation; brighter than the stars he himself crafted, brighter than what even Lucifer had been, brighter than Heaven’s light itself.

“All right, Crowley, that’s all taken care of now. Perhaps we might get a bite on the way?” And Crowley hears that slightly fussy voice and the prim footsteps behind him, and smiles.

Why content himself with pixels and metal and silicon? He could see Aziraphale now, he always had – in the middle of a crowd, in a mess of chaos and noise, in the backs of his eyelids before he fell asleep. Moth to flame. A north star of six thousand years. Seemingly untouchable, and yet here he was now.

“Shall we get on then, my dear boy? The show begins at half past seven, I believe, and I’d prefer we get there without getting discorporated by your driving.”

Crowley locks his phone, the screen going dark. He looks up to see an affectionate smile on the angel’s face, and thinks, gratefully, of how much brighter his world has become.


End file.
